She doesn't hesitate, doesn't deny me. She moans into my mouth, like she's just realized she's been waiting for this from the moment I left her here. And maybe shehasbeen. Or maybe the adrenaline inside of her veins is a drug she didn't realize she would be so addicted to, and surrendering to it is a euphoria unlike anything she's ever known.
I pull away far too soon, despite every cell in my body protesting.
“That wasn't the plan.” I remind her, and she bites her lip, chastised. I chase it away and sink my teeth gently into that same spot instead, just hard enough to be intentional. “But it was the hottest fucking thing I've ever seen.”
She opens her mouth and tries to crash against me again, but I pull her into my arms instead, dropping her on her feet and making the kiss quick so I can’t get lost in it. I want to. I want to consume her right now, to use her, to be used by her.
“So, we adapt. And then, when we're in the clear, we can celebrate.”
Amber hesitates just a moment before nodding, and then she looks down at the body on the ground she made quick work of killing.
“You'll need that knife.” I tell her, watching to see if she's too squeamish to wrench it free from where it's embedded in his throat. She did mention that she had been in nursing school but that she was too weak-stomached to survive it.
I wonder if that's still a problem even now that she's covered in blood.
Apparently, it's not.
She bends down and wraps her fingers around the hilt, bracing a foot against his pale face so that she can yank the blade free with relative ease. Her eyes find mine again, seeking further instruction.
I'm fucking in love.
And what's crazier?
I think my beast is in love, too.
He still wants to ruin her, but I think he wants to watch me put her back together after, too.
37
Amber
I've never felt anything as potent as whatever the fuck this is.
My veins are on fire, burning with purpose, with life, with something that transcends reality and defies logic. The moment doesn't feel real, bleeding with this sort of glorious clarity, but I also feel too alive for it not to be real.
I blink when Cal shoves the dress at me, not sure what he wants me to do with it.
“I need you to be clothed for this, or I'm not going to be able to focus. All that blood on you... fuck. You're so goddamn gorgeous.”
His voice sounds far away, but his eyes are on me, fixed, level, and absolutely ravenous.
I want to be ravaged, and some small part of me thinks I should feel bad about that. I should feel bad that I want Cal to fuck me so hard I can't breathe or even think. I should especially feel bad about that when I just fucking killed a man. But I don't. Not even a little.
It's like the floodgates are firmly in place, and I'm soaking in the pleasure, the euphoria, the fucking bliss.
All of the pain and the fear, the anguish and agony, and the doubts and insecurities are on the other side, a violent sea useless to break past the walls. It's utter fucking perfection.
I don't bother asking him why this dress, why he wants me to dress up like a porcelain doll instead of in the clothes I wore here. I know he likes me to be his little doll. And I've grown to like it, too.
Some sick part of melikesbelonging to him, likes his praise, and likes the way he can't control himself around me sometimes.
I'll be his little doll as long as he wants to play with me, but tonight, I'm a possessed doll.
A fucking killer doll.
The skirts swish against my bare legs as I step into it, and he groans as I pull it over my breasts, slipping my hands inside the puffy sleeves.
“There are four of them out there.” He explains. It's one more than we expected, but in the grand scheme of things, I doubt that makes much of a difference. Not when they're locked in here with us. “We can't lure them back one by one anymore... not here.” His eyes indicate the body I'm responsible for, and I wonder if I should apologize again.
